Maybe Next Year
by si-star-x
Summary: Teenchesters. Dean is well past the point of expecting anything good for his birthday, but eighteen stitches and a hovering brother by his side? What has he done in life to deserve this?


Dean's left leg was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, his jeans lying awry across the bed and the stark white pad of gauze taped steadfast to the expanse between his ankle and calf. He had his arm slung over his face, forearm pressing into his eyes and hand dangling against the pillow that supported his head.

The motel was silent for only a second before there was a click of a door, a creak of metal hinges and then the shuffle of ungainly feet.

"How many was it?"

Sam's curiosity seeped into Dean's bones and he couldn't help but sniffle as oppose to bark out a laugh.

"Eighteen," He offered quietly, not moving the arm from his eyes and keeping his mouth tight as the sting from the peroxide still lingered deep in the wound.

"Huh." Sam murmured as he stepped closer, moving to be at the side of his brothers bed and hovering over the leg, hand reaching out to finger the gauze, eyebrows furrowed and concern etched across his features.

"Does it hurt?" The youngest Winchester offered his words quietly, his voice rough as evidence of his own tears.

Dean just nodded, the nod subtle behind the arm that covered his face.

"Can I see?" Sam's voice was soft and thick with curiosity, hand still outstretched, fingers already long even though he was still shorter than Dean.

Dean knew his Dad would have something to say if he walked in on Sam prying off the tape and exposing the freshly stitched wound to the bacteria and dust in the air, but he smiled, because he wanted to see it too, wanted to see the scar that would be left behind and the wound that would probably keep him off his feet for a couple of days.

So Dean nodded again, shifting his arm as he felt Sam go for his leg, knowing the tug of skin would be sore as the tape pulled on bruises and torn flesh.

Sam was careful as he kept one hand down to keep the skin taut and then used the other to peel back the tape. He just needed to peel off one edge to have a peek.

Dean bit down on his lip as his sore ankle protested the movement, he was only just recovering from having his Dad's calloused fingers closing the gaping wound. He was still feeling the butterflies in his stomach, the embarrassment of tears trickling down his cheek; because it had hurt like a bitch and he was pretty sure he'd twisted the ankle to hell too, so every bump and hold and jar sent shock waves up his leg and into his stomach. But at least he hadn't let the nausea get the better of him, and he didn't shout out either. As soon as the last stitch had been pulled, his Dad had snapped the med kit shut, tucked it under his arm and proclaimed that he was going for a drink.

Dean figured it was his way of dealing with the fact that he couldn't keep his kids safe all of the time. Especially not today.

It was strange, but Dean always longed for the moment Sam stepped out of the bathroom after hiding in there whilst his Dad opened the med kit and forced himself into doctor-mode. The green of his hazel eyes was always enhanced by the red rim surrounding them, and although it annoyed Dean to hell with the way Sam fussed and tried to brush hair out of his eyes, Dean always got a vague sense of satisfaction as he batted away his brother's hands and realised that it was only because Sam cared about him.

"How's it looking?" Dean spoke, realising that he wasn't going to get a good look without moving, and that wasn't going to happen because he planned to keep his leg still for as long as possible.

"Eighteen stitches." Sam agreed, almost as though he had counted them all. "It's kind of funny..."

Dean raised an eyebrow.

"One more and it really would have been ironic."

Sam carefully pressed the tape back down onto Dean's leg, satisfied that it stuck down enough to look like it hadn't been tapered with.

"Most people have candles for their birthday," Sam smiled to himself, brushing back hair from his own eyes, "Not stitches."

Dean snorted. He would have argued but Sam was right.

"Maybe next year you can bake me a cake then, princess."

"Not a snowballs chance."

Dean rolled his eyes, because did his little brother just try out one of his favourite phrases?

Dysfunctional didn't even cut it.


End file.
